Kael didn’t remember falling asleep.

  But he knew, the moment his eyes fluttered open, that this was not the waking world.

  He stood in a vast black field, cracked like scorched glass. Above him, the sky twisted in slow spirals, filled with colorless clouds that wept ash instead of rain. There was no sound, no scent, no breath of wind. Only a distant hum — like something ancient breathing beneath the surface.

  Then the voices began.

  Not loud. Not harsh. Just there. Whispering through the silence like leaves brushing against his ears.

  “He sees.”

  “He walks again.”

  “The Sleeper stirs.”

  Kael turned. And he saw them.

  Figures… dozens, maybe hundreds. Frozen mid-battle. Some still clutching weapons, others collapsed on their knees, heads bowed in silent defeat. Their skin was pale, eyes vacant, as if all life had drained away. Soldiers of different nations, some wearing old armor he’d only seen in storybooks. All dead — and yet not decaying.

  And in the center stood the Masked Man.

  Kael couldn’t see his face — the hood was too deep, his body cloaked in smoke that seemed to breathe. But he could feel his gaze.

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  And worse… he felt familiar.

  Kael took a step forward.

  The ground beneath him cracked.

  The Masked Man raised a hand — not in threat, but in invitation.

  Suddenly, a bolt of pain shot through Kael’s chest. He gasped, clutching at his ribs, as something moved inside him — something old, something buried.

  He fell to his knees.

  The dead soldiers began to whisper again, but this time, in unison.

  “He has the mark.”

  “He must not remember.”

  “Do not wake the rest…”

  Then—

  A scream tore through the air.

  Not Kael’s. Not the soldiers’.

  A scream that shook the sky, cracking the clouds like glass. A child’s voice, twisted in agony and rage.

  And just like that—

  Kael woke up.

  He sat bolt upright in the hayloft above the barn he’d taken shelter in. Sweat clung to his skin like oil. The moonlight poured through the cracks in the roof, painting silver bars across his face.

  And his chest burned.

  Kael ripped open his shirt.

  There, etched faintly across his skin, glowing like coals, was the symbol — the circle with the jagged line.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  It was a message.

  Somewhere in Red Hollow, Solma awoke from her trance with blood dripping from her nose.

  She whispered to the dark:

  “He’s not the only one dreaming.”

  The battlefield. The dead. The symbol now burned into Kael’s skin.

  Deyna is starting to connect dots.

  And something ancient is watching from behind the veil.

  Next: Chapter 4 – Shadows in the Flame.

  This time… the danger isn’t in his mind.

  A.N.

  What do you think the Echo Dream really is?